


Daddy Issues

by thesimplyuninspired



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 16:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8721367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesimplyuninspired/pseuds/thesimplyuninspired
Summary: Dean attempts grieving. Post 2x03. Written for November Dean Winchester Creations Challenge.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest fic I've written in a while. Also decided to give AO3 a try. No beta; all mistakes are my own.

Ellen ended their phone call with an invitation and a no-nonsense tone of hers that had Dean feeling strangely welcome and warm while also making him want to straighten his posture and organize the Impala’s trunk. Sam noticed the reaction and smirked a little like he was fighting a full bark of laughter, and Dean tossed an old crumpled-up receipt at his head in retaliation. All this did was make Sam actually laugh, however, so Dean scowled to himself and shifted in his seat, trying to settle back into the mold of the leather.

Surprisingly, Sam did not want to talk. Or maybe he did, but he was leaving it alone this time. Dean had been gearing himself up ever since they’d left Gordon in that chair for Sam to turn on his this-is-me-being-sympathetic-to-your-needs voice that he typically reserved for shell-shocked survivors. So when Sam only commented on the local gas prices and pulled out the laptop, Dean was left a bit perplexed. Relieved, so very relieved, of course, that Sam wasn’t going to press this time, but perplexed. An itch was crawling just beneath the surface of his skin, anxious and furious, like prickles laid against the surface of a balloon. Dean clenched his teeth and told himself not to pop.

He hadn’t spoken much to Lenore. Even after everything he felt averse to standing near her, like reverse polarity. He had watched silently as she and Sam talked and found himself still on edge, assessing her condition, trying to calculate how fast or strong she would be in her current state, and subconsciously noting where all the exits were. The observation of himself had been a shock, lightning down his spine, and he had fastened one of the knots tying Gordon to his chair a little tighter than necessary.

Dean wondered if he had been worried that she would do something to them, or if he would do something to her.

The thought buzzed in him now as he drove, a swarm of hornets in his chest and stomach. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, mapping out the familiar grooves, and tried to fill his ears with the Impala’s engine, purring like a cat full of cream. He let the rumble of it curl up his toes through his body and tried not to think- to think of his dad, sitting in this exact spot, streetlights passing by as he had spoken, in terse, simple words, about the nightmares come to life and how he had been blind, _so blind_.

Sometimes Dean wondered if he had only dreamed that moment, being five years old and sitting in the passenger seat, more afraid than he had ever known he could be. He kept coming back to it, over and over, turning it in his hands, but he could never parse anything new. He wasn’t really sure what he was looking for.

* * *

 

Once again, the Roadhouse was quiet and empty when they stepped inside, the noontime light angling in and setting dark shadows into the woodwork. After a few moments, Jo appeared out of the back, took one look at them, and said, “Oh, it’s you.”

“Nice to see you, too,” said Dean flatly.

Sam waved at Jo in greeting. “Ellen told us to drop by.”

Jo’s face read _No duh, dummy,_ but she angled her head towards the back and said, “Mom’s on a grocery run. You just missed her.” Then she leaned against the bar as Sam made his way to a dusty corner, watching him impassively as he sat down and started pulling out books. But Dean made his way over to her, taking a seat on the barstool.

“Do anything fun?” asked Jo. “Heard you ran into Gordon.”

The image of Gordon standing behind the tortured Lenore, speaking in that easy, reasonable way of his, flashed through Dean’s head and sank into his gut, stirring the hornets up. He laughed, but it sounded tired even to his own ears.

“Oh, yeah. Barrel of laughs. We had to leave him tied to a chair.”

Jo’s eyebrows rose a little, but otherwise she looked unsurprised. “Yeah, that sounds about right. What did he do this time?”

The easy response came to his lips, but Dean paused, the words choking him. Gordon’s resolute, simple words, as matter-of-fact as talking about the weather, were still chiming between his ears. They echoed back and forth, back and forth, the tone and timber shifting with each turn until he was suddenly hearing John, the cadence of his speech easy to remember. And God, he was too sober for this.

He really didn’t want to think about Dad right now. He didn’t want to think about anything Dad had said, ever.

_I didn’t blink. And neither would you._

“Hey, anyone in there?”

Jo’s fingers were snapping in front of Dean’s face, and he blinked at her. Her face was less concerned than amused, but her look was far too knowing for his tastes. So he relaxed his shoulders and slid back into open charm, like slipping on a second skin.

“Ah, what does it matter?” he asked, shrugging. “You know Gordon.”

The amusement dropped from Jo’s face and she rolled her eyes. “Fine. Don’t tell me.”

“Nothing to tell.”

Jo gave him a half-hearted glare, and she swung around the bar to grab some of the cheap stuff. As she looked through the bottles, Dean considered about asking her about her own dad. He imagined asking her if he was ever wrong, if she was ever disappointed, if he’d ever broken her heart. For a moment, he thought about opening up the gulf inside him and letting it out, just a little, taking the pressure off.

She straightened up, two bottles in hand. “You wanna be buzzed, or pretty much sober?”

The moment passed. Dean smiled at her. “Whichever’s cheaper.”

* * *

 

An hour later, Dean had managed to work up a modest tab. He kept telling himself, _last one, promise_ , but he seemed to keep getting a new bottle. The buzzing in his stomach had been dulled, transformed into something much more pleasant. Jo was looking at him like she was going to cut him off pretty soon, but Dean didn’t much care. It was nice to not have to think for a few moments.

Sam had long abandoned his books and gone outside, citing a need for fresh air. Jo disappeared into the back, with a parting warning that she fully intended to have him pay when she got back. Dean waved her off, and soon he was alone, nursing a half a bottle of beer. Around him, the Roadhouse was quiet, but for the buzz of the occasional fly and the muffled call of a crow outside. Dean closed his eyes and willed for it to sink into him, to quiet the thoughts just under the tipsy lacquer.

From the back came a loud stumbling noise, cracking the reverie. Dean internalized the sigh and looked towards the noise to see Ash, bleary-eyed and possibly hung-over, lurch into the room. Ash cast a dazed scan of the room, finally landing on Dean. His eyebrows rose in something that was not quite surprise, and he lifted a hand in greeting.

“Oh, hey man.”

Dean waved his fingers a little back, and watched as Ash navigated his way over, slipping onto a stool next to Dean with an ease Dean hadn’t been sure Ash could manage in his current state. Settling his weight, Ash sighed in contentment and leaned on the counter, hands clasped before him.

“What brings you here, Winchester? Need an update?”

“You have one?” asked Dean.

“Nope,” Ash answered casually. “Unless you want to know the average life cycle of a cow.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Good man.” Ash clapped Dean on the shoulder, then hoisted himself over the bar and ducked behind it. He reemerged with two cans of beer, one of which he offered to Dean. Dean eyed the can before shaking his head, and Ash shrugged, placing it on the bar top as he opened the other one with a loud hiss. He took a long gulp, and Dean went back to considering his bottle.

“Jo roped you into paying, huh?”

Dean sighed, chuckling to himself. “Might as well, right?”

“Man, you are in the dumps today,” Ash observed, scanning him shrewdly. “You and Sam still holding up.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re doing fine, we’re…”

Dean trailed off, biting his lip. Beer in his belly dampening his inhibitions a little, he asked, “Hey, what do you remember of your dad?”

Ash, mid-sip, raised his eyebrows. He swallowed and said, “My dad was an accountant.”

Dean stared at him. “…Really.”

“Yup, model suburban nine-to-five. His boss was a stingy old codger but he made it work. Put me through MIT.”

“Oh? So, where is he…?”

“Died in a skiing accident,” said Ash, shrugging. “’Bout eight years back. He’d always wanted to go but never found the time. Irony, right?”

Dean nodded in agreement, but didn’t push any further. Ash’s tone was light, but Dean recognized the avoidant gazed, the way his fingers fidgeted around his drink. So he reached over, tapping his bottle to Ash’s can. Ash didn’t say anything, but he inclined his head, saluting with his beer, and they both took a swig.

* * *

 

After a very long chat about computer terms that Dean only mostly understood, Ash started to droop, leaning lower and lower against the bar. The pleasantness of Dean’s tipsiness was starting to sour into something heavier, a kind of tired that he’d been trying to chase away since…he didn’t want to think about that. He topped off his beer, slapping down some cash to cover his tab and told Ash he was going to get some air. Ash barely responded, melted over the bar top like a cat in the sun.

It was a bright day outside, but the wind was cool, startling Dean slightly out of his funk. He took a deep breath and it felt good in his lungs, bright and refreshing, but took none of the empty with it when he exhaled. For a moment he wished he was back at Bobby’s, given some old clunker to get his hands busy. He didn’t like this kind of energy, that went nowhere and did nothing but make him shake, make him want to tear out walls and smash every piece of glass he could find. Even as he thought about it, it began to rise beneath his fingernails, itching.

Just as he was gritting his teeth against the sensation, Sam suddenly appeared from around the side of the Roadhouse. Dean nearly jumped out of his skin, and congratulated himself for covering it well. Still, he didn’t quite trust himself to meet Sam’s eyes right now, so he kept looking straight ahead.

“Have a nice walk?” he called, aiming for nonchalant.

“Why, you thinking of trying it yourself for once?” asked Sam, teasing. Dean rolled his eyes and didn’t bother to respond. Thankfully, Sam didn’t laugh.

“Seriously, though,” said Sam, coming to a stop beside Dean. “I, um, I know you want me to stop asking but, are you doing ok?”

“I’m fine, Sam,” said Dean, trying to make his tone as firm as he could. He was hoping Sam would take the hint, but so often Sam seemed to see Dean’s unwillingness as a challenge. He could almost hear Sam gearing up for a follow-up question, and decided to beat him to the punch, saying the first thing that came to him.

“Just, y’know…”

Sam stopped, looking surprised. Then he softened, the way Dean had often seen him do with the victims they interviewed, and waited, giving him an encouraging nod.

“Just, what?” Sam asked.

Dean was regretting this already, but giving up now would just make Sam push the subject harder, and he was too tired right now for that. He shuffled his feet a little, rubbing at the back of his neck, and asked, “What do you remember about Dad?”

To his credit, Sam did not visibly react. His expression remained completely frozen, and he readjusted his stance, folding his arms and peering at Dean a little more closely.

“…Really?”

“Yes, really,” said Dean, more frustrated than he would have liked. The buzzing was behind his teeth now, and he shoved his hands into his pockets, hiding the way they were clenching. “I just, I dunno, something nice, something…paternal.”

Sam blinked, slow. His face was twisting back into concern and oh, no, that was not the reaction Dean had been wanting. The almost pitying look Sam was giving him made the buzzing worse. If Dean had hackles, they would be on end right now.

“Is this about the case?”

“Look, y’know what?” said Dean, biting back his anger and turning away. “If you don’t want to talk-”

“No, no! I do! Dean, I do,” said Sam in a rush, raising his hands in placation. Dean turned back to him and watched as Sam chewed on it, thinking.

“There was this time- it was my tenth birthday, you remember this?”

Dean barely had to think about it to remember. “…Oh. Oh yeah, Chuck E. Cheese.”

“Yeah,” Sam nodded. “Dad came home and I guess he was in a good mood because he actually splurged on taking us to a real Chuck E. Cheese’s. He ordered a large pizza and it tasted like crap but I honestly didn’t care, I was just so happy that we were actually there. You disappeared somewhere into the arcade, and Dad actually played some skee ball. Won a toy rifle and it got run over in the parking lot two days later.”

Sam was smiling, a little wistfully. Then his expression cleared, and he said with a slight laugh, “Y’know, I don’t think he even realized it was my birthday.”

Dean did remember that. He’d been a little too old for the place himself, but John had seemed to think it was a real treat for them. Dean had gone to the bathroom, and had gotten sidetracked watching the other kids play, trying to convince himself it wasn’t envy roiling in his gut. Shockingly, John hadn’t been angry when Dean reemerged. He’d just given Dean a quiet look, disappointed, and ushered them out of the restaurant. That single look plagued Dean for a solid week.

Dean almost felt like he was going to throw up. He nodded and smiled at Sam as Sam went back into the Roadhouse, but Dean couldn’t move. His fingernails were digging into his palms, sharp points of pain, and he breathed, trying not to wheeze.

It wasn’t fair. _It wasn’t fair_. He had been trying so hard to hold onto John, but every time the man just slipped more out of his fingers. The memories withered, the things he’d convinced himself were fine just weren’t anymore. His fists ached to punch something, anything. He wanted to go find Gordon and punch him again for setting this off. He wanted to hit _himself_ for this, this sour betrayal, this inability to just let go of this anger that would rise and rise, and instead remember his father as a flawed, but good, man. He wanted…

He wanted his dad back.

* * *

 

The sun was setting when Ellen returned. The Roadhouse was starting to bustle, a handful of hunters wandering in and taking seats in the low light. Jo wandered among them, returning their come-ons with practiced barbs, and every so often she would meet Dean’s eyes at the bar and exchange exasperated looks, causing Dean to laugh a little in spite of himself. Sam had disappeared into the back with a slightly more awake Ash some time ago, probably talking about whatever nerd stuff they would like to talk about. Dean told himself that he wouldn’t like the conversation, anyway.

There were no drinks in front of him now, just his hands clasped before him, when Ellen appeared behind the bar, fixing him with that warm but intimidating stare. Dean fought the urge to straighten up, while Ellen looked him up and down.

“What’s your poison tonight?” she asked.

The thought of beer on his tongue, filling the empty inside him, tempted him for a moment. But Dean shook his head. “Already worked up a tab. Jo cut me off.”

“Cider, then,” said Ellen. She poured a glass and put it in front of him. “On the house.”

Dean was bewildered. He stared at the amber liquid in front of him, uncertain of what to say but strangely touched. He glanced up towards Ellen’s eyes and mumbled, “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” she replied, then went across the bar to assist another customer.

Gingerly, Dean picked up the glass and took a sip. It was sweet and satisfying in a way Dean hadn’t known he needed, and he examined it, surprised. He took a few more before Ellen returned. She noted the lowered levels of the glass and nodded.

“How is it?”

“It’s good,” said Dean sincerely. Ellen afforded him a smile, warm, and Dean smiled back.

“So,” said Ellen, “you gonna tell me what’s on your mind?”

Dean’s fingers clenched around the glass. He looked back down at the cider, the sweet, wonderful, betraying cider, and placed the glass back down on the counter.

“Who said anything’s on my mind?”

“When you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you know the look,” said Ellen. She raised her eyebrows and waited, leaning on the bar top, all business.

Dean wanted to tell her to buzz off. He wanted to reply with something snappy, like, _What are you, my shrink?_ He could almost hear her reply: _Bartender. Close enough_. He opened his mouth to tell her to mind her own business. But something else came out instead.

“Did someone ever disappoint you so bad, you didn’t know what to do about it?”

From the look on her face, Dean could tell Ellen knew exactly what he was talking about. Thankfully, she simply picked up some glasses and started cleaning.

“Plenty of people. People I really cared about, people I didn’t so much. More of the former than the latter, really.”

“I just…I’m so mad, recently,” he admitted, voice small and hopefully swallowed up by the ambiance. “I don’t know what to do.”

Ellen hummed in commiseration. “There’s nothing you can do with that kind of stuff. Just wait until it wears itself out.”

“Yeah?” Dean snorted. “And how long does that take?”

She eyed him as she picked up another glass, but it wasn’t judgmental. There was a slight smile threatening her face, and she busied herself further to hide it.

“I’ll be honest with you,” she said. “I don’t know. This kind of stuff…there isn’t really an answer. But I do know this much.”

She put down the glass and looked Dean straight in the eye, straight into his bones. It pinned Dean where he sat, and he swallowed.

“You’re tough,” she stated, firmly. “And you can beat this. And if you ever need a hand up, you’ve got people around you who want to help.”

Warmth and shame battled inside Dean, leaving all kinds of discomfort in their wake. Embarrassingly, Dean almost felt like he was about to cry. So instead of speaking, he swallowed around the emotion and looked to the bar top for answers.

“You finish that drink, honey,” said Ellen. “I’ve got customers waiting, but you can stay here as long as you like.”

Ellen walked away, and had some kind of exchange with Jo, who had appeared at the bar. Dean did not look up from the bar top again, but did reach for the cider, taking another long, slow sip.


End file.
